


Oh thou idiotic man, can't you just shut up and forget about it?

by Depressedloaf



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Graphic Description, Mental Health Issues, POV Sakusa Kiyoomi, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depressedloaf/pseuds/Depressedloaf
Summary: As a general rule, Sakusa was not a man that let every little thing that happened to pop into his mind dictate how he lived his day to day life. Had that been the case then he would not have been able to live at all, considering how his mind would calculate the likelihood of being infected by some kind of life threatening disease just by the simple touch of someone’s hand resting briefly on his shoulder.But that was only just that, a general rule.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 12





	1. One, two, three lines

Outside the rain was thudding against the window relentlessly, muffled by the spotless window. Looking out, he could see the way it streamed down the gentle slope of the concrete covered ground below, four stories down. 

He scratched at his skin, it felt thick with grime underneath his fingers, marking him up and consuming him on even the most miniscule and cellular level. He glanced around the living room. It was pristine and uncontaminated by whatever disease he thought had merged with the furniture adorning the open space. But even though he logically knew that, he could still feel the germs littering every open surface in a grim reminder that not even here could feel at rest knowing that it was actually clean. 

He dragged his nails against the soft expanse of skin covering his unclad arms again. Sinking in deep and leaving angry red marks as a lacking comfort. He had already done a thorough cleansing of the place thrice but still it was not enough. 

As a general rule, Sakusa was not a man that let every little thing that happened to pop into his mind dictate how he lived his day to day life. Had that been the case then he would not have been able to live at all, considering how his mind would calculate the likelihood of being infected by some kind of life threatening disease just by the simple touch of someone’s hand resting briefly on his shoulder. 

But that was only just that, a general rule. Sometimes the feeling of having people touch him or surround him, the smells erupting from the crowds surrounding him no matter if it was conventionally pleasant or not, made his skin prickle uncomfortably and his mind single in on that point of contact or those smells. It was like not being bothered by the ticking sound of a clock until you noticed it being there and then being unable to properly focus on anything else. 

He had long ago accepted this part of him, what else was there to do when he could not be cured? Countless appointments with health professionals, mental health specialists and the constant going on and off different meds had made that very clear. It would be futile to argue differently and he really did not have the time or ambition to deny a factual and objective truth. 

But a part of him still wished that all that time spent on perfecting his meds and mapping out what exactly was wrong with him had been more useful. Sure eating his meds daily helped, but not entirely. There came days like this when something as easily done as breathing became the most difficult task to complete and his airways would constrict entirely, leaving him sitting by his kitchen table with his hair clenched in his hands until it passed.

He hated it, but not because it made people think that he functioned less perfectly than they did, that was nothing more than a mild annoyance. No, it was more so that he disliked the fact that it interfered with everything in his life. Everything he did was according to some pre-constructed schedule, the time he ate, the time he went to sleep, the time he cleansed and everything else. He was well enough that he could stretch that schedule if he had to, but it felt better not to. So when times like this came around, eating him up from the inside out, he was not entirely able to maintain those carefully crafted routines. And that was the main issue. 

Thinking back, he had to wonder why it had taken his parents so long to acknowledge that something was off with him. Did they really not notice the way he would scrub his hands relentlessly after having played with other kids, complaining about their snot drenched hands and faces, or the way he refused to touch the food someone else aside from his mother made him? 

He scoffed. Of course they had noticed. Even people that were less present in his life like his teachers, ballet instructor and then his coaches had noticed it. His parents just had not wanted to accept that they had a child that strayed away from their definition of normal. His older siblings were nothing like him when it came to this so perhaps it was only natural for them to not want to think of it. 

His older sisters had played with their friends without complaint when they were younger and were social butterflies just like their mother, constantly going out with friends without feeling the need to cover themselves up in long sleeves like it was a needed protective barrier. But him being the pampered little brother they had accepted his need for wearing a mask whenever he was surrounded by more than five people at a time, and turned their eyes away from anything that was out of the ordinary. 

They had probably thought that it would be easier that way, that it was something that would dissolve into nothing as he grew older. Unfortunately for them that had not been the case, and even though he himself did not remember much of it he knew that everything had boiled down to him washing his hands until they bled fervently, until his cuticles were rubbed raw and had started to peel off his hands. That had been the starting signal for a two weeks stay at the teenage psych ward, then months of assessments and then years of bleak therapy sessions. 

He did not hate them for it, he did not really hate anyone even if he came off that way. He just disliked people. But they had drifted apart after he got his diagnosis at 17, and now they barely met up twice a year, and when they did then it was less so out of want and more so out of obligation. 

He still remembered sitting in the doctor’s office like it was yesterday, fiddling with his fingers and wanting to leave the suffocating air inside the hospital. A moderate case of contamination OCD the doctor had said. His father had not accepted it, screamed at the doctor in rage and telling him that ‘there is nothing wrong with my son!’. His mother had just cried, an endless downpour of tears hitting the floor as the doctor tried to make his father’s anger vane, while he just sat in that uncomfortable doctor’s office chair. Avoiding contact with it as much as was physically possible without levitating an inch above it. He was not particularly upset about it. He took it like anything else coming his way, thinking that it was just the way things were. 

When they left it was with a bottle filled with pills, that rattled everytime the car drove into a hole in the pavement, or when his father hit the brakes too aggressively. The sound of it must have been a grim reminder to his parents, because his mother had started to cry again, sniffling into the red fabric of her shirt’s sleeve while his father swore silently for himself. 

_ ‘Kiyoomi, let’s not tell anyone about this? Not even Motoya-kun okay? It’s better that way.’  _

_ ‘Don’t bring this up anymore Kiyoomi. It’s for the best if we do not mention it.’  _

Best for who? Not for him, or at least that was what his physiatrist told him. He himself did not really care, the whole do not tell tactic had worked fairly well for him. It was not like he had been a super socially outgoing person from the beginning anyway who felt the need to share every detail of his personal life to strangers he had just met. Though he did tell Motoya. It would have been impossible not to.

When he did he had expected Motoya to look at him like he was weirded out by it, or that he would say something mean, but he had just started crying before he walked over to him and tried to hug him. He had told him that he was brave but he did not understand that sentiment. It was the same as telling him that he was brave for having been born. It was not being brave, it was just the way things were. It was only an absurd coincidence. 

He turned away from the window, turning his back to the raging weather outside and walked into the bathroom on wobbly legs. It felt like he was about to fall over and collide with the harsh floorboards beneath but he knew that he would not. He had become so familiar with this feeling that it hardly even managed to throw him off balance anymore. Both literally and figuratively. 

Opening and closing the door behind him, he walked over to the cabinet hanging above the sink and took out an already opened package of razor blades. He took hold of one of them gingerly, and sank down on the floor with his back pressed to the wall, making the back of his shirt rise up. He raised the blade to his skin and pushed it down without thinking about it. 

One, two, three thin and horizontal lines dotted the skin of his left arm when he was done. Small beads of blood erupting from the fresh wound. Even something like this he did according to an already made up design. He made sure that every scar he left on his body became perfectly symmetrical in accordance with the rest he had already made. He hated the thought of them not looking the same and if they did then that would hurt him more than actually cutting through his skin. 

Looking down at the pale skin, and the stark contrast the blood created against it, he felt a twisted sense of satisfaction well up at knowing that he had been able to hide it from the team and his psychiatrist for this long. Habitually wearing long sleeves and compression shirts underneath the team jersey had prevented this from getting up in the open. He did not want them to know, especially not the team and they did not. He never mentioned it even when they asked him about his reluctance and disdain at having been subjugated to high fives and buttslaps. He never went into detail, simply telling them that he disliked physical contact, which in all honesty was not very far from the truth.

He was not someone who made a habit out of lying but this was the sole coping mechanism he had been able to preserve. Every compulsion he had, every inclination to do something that was out of the norm he had been forced to scrub away. Peel it down so that it was not visible anymore. That was the only reason he was hesitant to separate from this sense of comfort and relief. He looked down at the slightly gaping wounds cladding his skin as blood poured up incessantly. 

He dragged the razor blade over his skin one more time just for good measure, and looked on as the blood crawled its way down the length of his forearm. It was kind of hypnotic in a way, just watching it go down the drain as it no longer filled a function inside his body. But perhaps that was the reason it reduced his anxieties to something less allconsuming and something more manageable. 

He stood up and walked over to the sink. The cold metal of the razor blade clinkered as it hit the white porcelain of the sink when he put it down. Then he turned the faucet on. The heat was turned all the way up until the water started causing steam to rise up from it. 

It wrapped its way around his injured arms in a mesmerizing dance as he put his hands underneath the steady flow of the scalding water. It hurt, but that was the objective because then he knew that it would get rid of anything unsanitary that might still cling to him. 

He washed himself all the way up to the crevice by the elbow fold, letting the water wash over the wounds which ultimately only made them bleed more. It trickled down into the sink, blending with the water before finally being washed away. The steam rising in the air made the fabric of his shirt cling to him uncomfortably. He pulled it off of himself and folded it neatly, edge to edge, inside out, before placing it on top of the stool standing behind him.

He reached an arm out toward the cabinet. and then inside it, taking out a bottle of  hydrogen peroxide from out of the many other bottles containing a broad variety of meds and different solutions. Unscrewing the cap, the strong smell arose blending with the steam still filling up the room. His nose scrunched up. He did not by any means like the smell but it was an unavoidable and minor fly in the ointment if he wanted it to work. 

It stung badly when he poured it over his forearm causing the already raising and irritated wounds to scream out their agony, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from not finishing the task. 

He always went down the same route when he did this. A few identical lines, a harsh washing and then douzing his skin in the disinfectant before carefully wrapping the skin up in bandages. He was not an idiot, he knew that carving into his body with a foreign object was not the ideal treatment for anxiety or a sterile way of doing it. 

The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and unscented hand wash, thick enough that it would be fully possible to cut right through it with a knife. He finished wrapping up the wounds before walking out of there. 

He really wanted to take a shower as well aside from the careful attention he had given to his arms and hands, but the clock was 10 pm, and his desire to follow his sleeping regimen was stronger than the need to complete a full body shower. He could and would do that as soon as he awoke the morning after anyway. 

****

He was standing in the locker rooms. Most of the others had already left and it seemed like Adriah was starting to finish up packing his things now as well. That left only him and Miya standing in the locker room. 

Usually he would be first in and first out of the locker room, but considering last night’s event that would not have been possible. He could keep an eye on Miya alone and undress and pull on a shirt fast enough and discreetly enough that he would not notice the bandages still sticking to his skin but he could not keep an eye on all of them. 

He removed the shirt easily, folded it up with the inside facing out, before putting it down on the bench in front of him, and then he removed the compression shirt underneath alongside his pants and underwear. Stripping out of the compression shirt was like stripping out of a barrier against whosoevers' eyes would catch onto his bandaid covered wounds, and he angled his arm away from Miya’s line of sight when he walked past him and into the showers. 

The wetness underneath his feet felt disgusting, he hated the knowledge that the others had washed off their grime and sweat in there and that that was what coated to the soles of his feet. But it was either this or pulling on his clean clothes over his sweaty body and showering at home which felt equally as loathsome. 

He scrubbed himself raw underneath the scalding downpour of water like he did most of the time, scratching at his skin until he felt clean enough. The bandaids over his arms started to unstick at the edges. He would have to change them when he got home he thought as he looked down at their frayed edges. 

“Hey Omi-” He whipped his head up and looked at the man sticking his head into the shower room. Miya stopped mid sentence and his eyes looked down.

“Omi..”

“What?” He did not dislike Miya per se. He respected his boundaries when it came to physical touch, and when he sometimes would accidentally bulldoze those boundaries he would almost always start apologizing like he had not just touched him but murdered his entire family. Though he was obnoxious most of the time, prattling on and on about things that either did not matter or things that were way too personal. Which really ought to bother him more than it did.    


“What are those?” He pointed towards the bandaids placed over his skin, and he pulled the arm behind himself so that Miya would not see it. 

“Nothing, forget about it.” He turned around so that his back was facing Miya, an open invitation for him to leave it at that. Though even with this curt rejection Miya did not move from his spot behind him. 

“Did ya hurt yerself?” Atsumu took a step forward trying to reach for the arm like he wanted to inspect it. 

“Don’t tell anyone.” He gritted out, feeling cornered even as he hovered a few inches over the other man. 

“Huh? No I meant like did ya scratch yer arm or somethin’?” Shit. He tensed up, and he watched as realization hit Miya, his face falling and his eyes drifting down to look at the arm still hidden behind his own back. 

“Oh. You meant like-” His voice was low, like he could not grasp the concept of it at all.

“Shut up, don’t think about it.”    


“But ya can’t go around hurtin’ yerself!” 'Miya flayed around with his arms but his face was in disbelief. He could see why. He was self aware enough that he could understand why he did not really give off the vibe of someone having severe mental health issues.

“Don’t say anything.” He squinted his eyes as he looked at Miya who really did not seem to understand the importance of what he was conveying.    
  
“I don't care, I can’t just let ya do somethin’ like that!” 

“If you tell on me I won’t be able to play.” It felt ridiculous to have this conversation at all, trying to dissuade Miya from telling the coach or anything like that so that he would not be hauled off to the closest psychiatric ward. Especially when Atsumu was standing right in front of him fully clothed, his socks soaking up the water coating the floor while he stood there completely naked.

“But yer not okay!”

“I’m fine.”

“No yer clearly not! Why?” 

“Are you crying?” He scrunched his entire face up as he saw a hint of tears well up in Miya’s eyes. He looked like he had just seen Sakusa being struck by a semi truck out on the street and now he was bleeding to death in the middle of the dirty road.    
  
“NO, I’m not, don’t avoid the question!” He wiped the beginning of tears away angrily, like he really did not want them to be there in the first place. 

“I do it to cope.”   
  
“Are you depressed?” Atsumu looked if possible even more horrified at this false realization. 

“No.” That is what he thought was wrong with him? Sure he had been told that he looked like he would bring nothing but a funeral to the table during social gatherings, but he had not anticipated that that was what others thought. He really did not want to talk about this, but Miya looked at him like he would force him to speak if he did not do it voluntarily. 

“I have OCD.”

“The germ stuff?” 

“Yes, the ‘germ stuff’.” Silence hung in the air between them, and he just really wanted to leave. But they had to establish some kind of mutual agreement that would prevent Miya from telling anyone. To think that it had to come down to this when he had been hiding it for years. 

“You can’t tell anyone. I’m working on it.”

“Then ya hafta promise me not ta do it again.”    
  
“I can’t do that, it’s not that simple.” He said with an irritated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes it is! I’ll tell the coach otherwise!” Sakusa squinted his eyes together again in warning but Miya did not seem to back down and just stared right back at him.    
  
“I don’t know if you’re dumb enough not to get it, but they might hospitalize me if you do.” It was not certain that they would. It was not life threatening and the small scars dotting his forearms could easily be played off as minor injuries or cuts he had gotten as a child but he did not want to take that risk. He knew people got hospitalized for less.

Miya pushed a hand through his dyed hair, looking conflicted. 

“Take them off, I want ta see how bad it is.” The soaked bandages made themselves known, a burning presence curling around his wrists. He did not want to keep them any longer, but he also did not want to give Miya a walk through the park that was his mental health. He did it anyway. The bandaids coming clean off and showcasing the wounds to the world. 

“Shit, Omi.” 

“You asked me to.” He answered with a shrug. The wounds were not even that bad. Sure they were still raised and surrounded by redness, but they were small and insignificant. 

“I don’t know what ta do.” Miya said his eyes still glued to his arm.   
  
“Good, just forget about it.”   
  
“Ya know I can’t do that!” His eyes shot up to his face and once again he could see the beginning of tears pool in them. He really did not understand why he cried. He did not want to be pitied because he did not need to be. He was neither suicidal or dying from them so what was the point?

“I don’t care, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He said and walked past him, grabbing his towel and drying off the small amount of water that had not yet evaporated. He pulled the clean hoodie he had brought over his head, ignoring the way his hair wetted the collar and coloured it a deep grey. 

Miya walked after him hovering by his side.

“Can’t ya just call me next time ya feel like doin’ it?”

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think that would work.”    
  
“Ya hafta work with me here!” 

He looked at him. He seemed genuine enough but he was ignorant to a fault. Realistically he was well aware that talking to someone when he was breathing glass did not work, and the likelihood of it worsening everything was significantly higher. Having someone on the other line talk to him when he was like that would only make his head swim. 

“Fine, I’ll call you. But I don’t think that will work.”    
  
“I don’t care, just please don’t do it again.” Miya looked at him, and only now did he notice the way his hand was gripping onto his own sleeve. He did not feel as repulsed by it as he would have thought but he still pulled away, and Miya let him. His hand falling away to hang beside his body limply. 

“I can’t promise you that.”   



	2. A ride downtown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Omi? What are ya callin´ for it’s 6 am-”
> 
> “You told me to.”

“Omi? What are ya callin´ for it’s 6 am-”

“You told me to.” He tapped his finger against the flat surface of his kitchen table rhythmically. A soft drumming that was the only sound echoing in between the walls of his apartment. He knew it was early and it had been a conscious fight against his own will to actually call him, but it would be pointless to end the call now, Miya was already awake. At least that was what the muffled rustling through the phone told him, as if he had stepped out of his bed. 

All things considered he had not had a good start today. He had woken up a little later than he would have wanted to, and had to skip breakfast before going out to do some basic grocery shopping. He was a grown man after all, and unlike others' opinion of him he did lack the necessary means to employ someone to do something trivial like that for him. It usually worked out just fine, he woke up early, was the first one in and out of the nearest convenience store and then he went home. 

But that had not been the case today. Instead the process of checking the due dates of everything he picked and wiping them down with disinfectant wipes, was interrupted by a man sneezing him in the back of his neck. Just thinking about it made his skin crawl, and he wanted to take a shower again no matter if he had already done that thrice since coming back home. 

“What d’ya need me ta do?” He sounded more awake than he had done at first but his voice was still rough with sleep and it grated against his ear. It was less comforting than Miya probably had hoped that it would be, but there would be no positive outcome of telling him that. 

“I don’t know you came up with it.” He said more harshly than he had intended, blame it on the way his brain was screaming at him. 

“Right right.. How are you feeling?” 

“Not great.” He huffed a breath. He certainly could feel worse and he had felt worse many times before to which this time could not compare, but it was still bad enough a day for his routines to screech to a halt and for his breath to come out raggedy and sporadic. 

“Okay, ya haven’t done anythin’ right?” He sounded scared, like he feared that he had cut too deep and was now bleeding out somewhere in his own apartment. Miya really should give him more credit for being systematic and almost clinical everytime he did it. He always took care to make sure that he only kept it at a surface level, not enough to damage any vital veins. 

“No.” He thought about it constantly though. He yearned for the relief that came flooding through him like a tidal wave when he would harm himself, and a part of him wished that he had never called in the first place so that he could go on with it. 

“That’s good. Just breathe, it’ll be fine.” Miya really was the textbook definition of ignorance. His issues would not simply vanish if he breathed slowly. The wound cut much deeper than that. He would need an entire brain transplant if he could ever dream of this ever going away. Though he was also well aware that what Miya offered him for advice was not bad per se, but it was significantly more complex than that. 

“I can’t.” The words were squeezed out of him, and he could already feel the way everything worsen yet another degree as he heard Miya becoming more frantic on the other end. He did not want Miya to see, or more like to hear, this side of him. It was unsightly and it felt downright humiliating to know that he received the tickets for a front row seat to watch this shit show go down. 

“Isn’t there any breathing exercises for this? Like breathe in for 7 seconds and then breathe out and then hold yer breath or somethin’?” Sure there was. He had them memorized like the back of his hand, the problem was that they were mostly ineffective, and even when he tried to use them he would trail off again and start breathing like he had walked a mile knees deep in snow.

Suddenly he heard a loud bang on the other end and then some scraping sound that made him flinch where he sat. His knees hit the underside of the table harshly, making a prickling pain spread through his bone and all the way up his thighs. He hissed. 

“Sorry I dropped the phone.” 

“This is not going to work, I’m hanging up. Sorry for bothering you.” He pulled the phone away from his ear even though he could vaguely make out the way Miya argued against it. 

“No Omi don-” He clicked the button making everything turn as quiet as it had previously been. He should not bother anyone with this, it was his problem and his alone. There was no need to involve anybody else. 

He put the phone down on the pristine surface of the table in front of him with a soft thud and his fingers started drumming against it again. Perhaps he should text Miya and tell him that it was fine and that he should go back to bed. It felt like the right thing to do all things considered. But before he even had the chance to properly unlock his phone he saw the way it lit up, and heard the way it buzzed. He glanced towards it. ‘Don’t do anythin’ stupid, I’m comin’ over in 10’. That seemed highly unlikely. Miya lived far away from him that it would take him at least 30 minutes to get here, and then again he did not want him to get further involved in this. 

He typed out what he had originally thought about sending before standing up from the chair. Even Miya, no matter his idiocy and general lack of situational understanding, must realize that he wanted him to forget about it. He was not stupid even if Sakusa told him so on a regular basis. 

He walked into the bathroom as per usual. He pulled off his long sleeved shirt, folded it and discarded it somewhere inside the small room so that the excess of fabric would not get in the way. He could not exactly remember where he put it due to the fog in his head and with the way the entire room was apparently shifting underneath his feet. Reaching for the familiar package of razor blades he noticed that his hands were shaking.

It had been some time since he did it now, about a month, and all the open wounds had closed up and the only thing left to show was the small pink scars that would eventually fade. 

Grasping his fingers around the cold metal tightly he did not even bother with sitting down and just pushed the sharp edge down into his unsuspecting skin without mercy. But his hands being unstable as they were, he pushed it down a little too far and blood welled up violently, dripping down into the sink. He cursed for himself. That would be the measure to go by now, because even if the depth was done accidentally, he could not bring himself to stay away from his principle that every fresh wound must be identical. 

He cut again, and again. And when he felt that he had done enough he let the razor fall into his other hand so that he could do the same on the other arm. He could vaguely see the way more and more blood streamed out of his gaping wounds, flowing incessantly into the sink that was now coloured a deep red. It really should be more concerning than it was. 

One more he thought, and started to press the object into his skin, threatening to divide it yet again, before a loud knock was heard. He stilled, his hand trembling as it hovered in the air above his arm. But now it was less so due to anxiety and more so due to the blood loss. Everything was silent for awhile, before the boisterous sound erupted once more, and this time even more loudly. 

“Omi, open up now.” Miya. For how long had he been standing in here?

He looked down at his arm. If he did it just one more time, then the wounds coating his left arm and his right arm would be next to identical. He could do it quickly before talking to Miya. 

“Omi, I’m not playin’. Ya need to open up now or I’m callin’ the coach.” The threat hung in the air between them, seeping in through the empty space in between the thick wooden door and the walls surrounding it. He steeled his mind and cut himself once more, not really looking at his arm, making it so that the wound became slightly crooked. He did not notice it though and hurriedly grabbed his shirt with trembling fingers and pulled it over his head. That might be enough for Miya to believe that everything was normal. Hopefully. 

He unlocked the door and on the other side Miya stood, his chest heaving as he sucked in the thick air permeating the hallway outside.

“I told you not to come.”

“I know, but yer in a bad space and I got scared when ya just hung up. I thought ya might have done somethin’ bad.” Sakusa was by no means a man that let others opinions of him or whatever he did with his life affect him, but even when that was the case he could not help the way a slight wave of guilt coursed through him. He pushed it away as quickly as it had arrived. 

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Ya look kinda pale.” Miya eyed him cautiously. He probably was, he thought as he tried to prevent his shortness of breath from showing. 

“Really. Now go home and sleep. I’m sorry for waking you.” He tried to shut the door but Miya was quicker and shot an arm out to prevent him from doing so. 

“Show me yer arms then.” The grip he had on the doors handle tightened even though it pulled painfully at his injured skin. 

“No.” 

“How bad is it?”

“It’s nothing. Go.” Miya did not let himself be deterred and pushed his way into the apartment much to Sakusa’s dismay. He pulled his arms behind himself, however futile that would prove. 

“Omi.” Looking at Miya he looked almost angry, or at the very least disappointed which felt off considering this really had nothing to do with him. 

“I want you to go.” But before Miya could answer him, he felt his head get very dizzy, very suddenly, and nausea beginning to claw at his gut. He turned around, leaving Miya to stand alone in the hallway, before he rushed into the bathroom as hurriedly as he could considering that his legs felt wobbly and weak underneath him. He reached for the toilet just in time before he dry heaved into it. Sweat seeped out through his pores, coating his forehead in a distasteful shine and as the smell of vomit rose to his nose he began to choke on more vomit again. It was disgusting. 

When the worst of it was over and the risk of puking had passed, he let his head fall down to rest on top of the toilet. Under other circumstances this would probably freak him out much more than it currently did, but he could not bring himself to do anything about his less than ideal position being draped over the toilet seat. 

Footsteps came dragging behind him, but his head felt too heavy for him to look up. 

“Omi. What have ya done?” Miya sounded horrified, and he did not doubt that he had seen the minor bloodbath that had stained the sink.

“Go.” It sounded weak, but at least the slouching position made his head spin significantly less. He felt Miya sink down on the floor beside him through the tremors rolling through the tile floor and by the heat from Miya’s body wrapping itself around his left side. 

“I’m gonna pull yer sleeves up ‘kay?” He almost felt like laughing because Miya had marched right into his apartment even when he told him to go, so the likelihood of him actually stopping if he told him to seemed nonexistent. Miya apparently saved no time because almost immediately he felt warm fingers pulling his sleeve up. It hurt when the fabric had to be forcefully pulled off from his skin where the blood had started to dry, holding it firmly in place. He could feel how more blood started to trickle out from the wounds that had begun to close up on their own. He hissed when the pain spread as Miya continued with his ministrations. 

“I’m sorry.” He said lowly before pushing the sleeve out of the way entirely. It was silent for a while after that and he could hear the sharp intake of breath coming from Miya. 

“Shit, shit! I’m gonna call after an ambulance.” That sentence cleared his head a little and fear gripped a hold of him. 

“No, don’t.” He said and lifted his head looking right at Miya even though his head spun as he did. Miya looked pale, he noted, and his face was twisted into a concerned expression.

“I hafta, this is dangerous.” 

“I’ll kill you if you do.” It came out like a lackluster imitation of a real threat and not even his squinted eyes helped his case. 

“Then ya will hafta kill me.” Miya fished up his phone from out of his pocket. Even though his limbs ached he reached forward and snathced the phone from his grip. 

“Don’t you remember me telling you that they will haul me off to a psych ward if they know? I won’t be able to play.”

“Ya won’t be able to play like this anyway. I can’t look away from this.” A part of him suddenly understood why Miya had been elected captain during his last year in highschool. Miya tried to snatch the phone back but he held it out of his reach. 

“Omi, yer not well.” 

“Don’t you think I know that? I go to therapy twice a week and I won’t get better just because I’m being held captive in there.” The blood that erupted from the irritated wounds dripped onto the floor. He could see how Miya looked at the vivid droplets with agony in his eyes. 

“I’ll talk ta them. I’m sure we can work around that.” His eyes looked up from the floor and latched onto his own eyes. That seemed unlikely. there was virtually no possibility of them taking his wants into consideration. Not when it came to something like this. He glared at Miya. 

“Give me the phone.” Grabby hands in his direction, and the phone in his hand felt as heavy as a lead. His hand holding it dropped to the ground in defeat. It was either him being cooperative or he would be dragged out of here by the paramedics. 

“Don’t call. Take my keys and drive me there if you have to.”


End file.
